What the hell, summer spell.

“When I woke up later that night, I didn’t want to open my eyes. For an instant, I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or breathing in the dark. I was afraid if I lifted my lids, I’d look out to the old, familiar view of my apartment, with its toppling bookcases and artless walls. And then, when I realized I recognized the steady heartbeat behind me, the tender flesh that spooned the length of my body, I shut them even harder, wanting the moment to last forever, afraid that I’d break down and cry.” – Memory Mambo page 91

My copy of Achy Obejas’ Memory Mambo is filled with dog-eared pages indicating the location of moving, thought-provoking passages. When you read it (will you please?), you can tell me if your pages are dog-eared too.

This also holds the distinction of being the only book I’ve ever read with baby rape in it.

“The moment came when we should have kissed–you could practically hear the surging strings–but I was too shy to make the first move, and so, I guess, was he. Still, I could feel this thing between us, not just lust but a kind of immediate love, the sort that, like instant oatmeal, can be realized in a matter of minutes and is just as nutritious as the real thing.”

–– David Sedaris, “Guy Walks into a Bar Car” as reprinted in The Best American Essays 2010

An observation:

At their readings, late-20- and 30something writers recite work that sounds like excerpts from a book. Their words, if printed, would appear in blocks of text, two inches tall and four-and-a-half inches wide.

The prose of younger 20somethings sounds like the process of reading or writing will likely be interrupted. It sounds like writing with a too-white screen behind it, in a font without serifs.

From “Love” by Clarice Lispector

“Deep down, Anna had always found it necessary to feel the firm roots of things. And this is what a home had surprisingly provided. Through tortuous paths, she had achieved a woman’s destiny, with the surprise of conforming to it almost as if she had invented that destiny herself. The man whom she had married was a real man, the children she mothered were real children. Her previous youth now seemed alien to her, like one of life’s illnesses. She had gradually emerged to discover that life could be lived without happiness: by abolishing it she had found a legion of persons, previously invisible, who lived as one works—with perseverance, persistence, and contentment. What had happened to Anna before possessing a home of her own stood forever beyond her reach: that disturbing exaltation she had often confused with unbearable happiness. In exchange she had created something ultimately comprehensible, the life of an adult. This was what she had wanted and chosen.”

I got my second tattoo on Wednesday, June 2nd

I wrote about my first tattoo story for Emily Gould’s collection. The story behind the tiger tattoo (my second, probably final one) is under the jump.

Read More